Not unlike most high school seniors I had become vividly aware that my particular high school was just down right “crazy.” This conclusion came on the not-particularly-momentous occasion of me being late to class and walking down the empty halls. A woman ahead of me was talking animatedly about a student that had apparently gained her admiration. “He’s just such a sweet boy and so good to!” I looked up…only to find her talking to herself. I heard loud swearing as I passed a classroom where our beloved and ancient substitute stood screaming at the terrified freshmen about World War II. Yet it was not just this occasion but many others that led to my conclusion. Memories of the class cowering as our physics teacher engaged in an air-gun war over our heads. Watching the video screen as we zoomed a little remote car down the halls….only to see it crash into what inevitably was the superintendent’s shiny shoes. That time when the class valedictorian almost held a protest in the gym. And our english teacher jumping ten feet every morning as the door was banged open and the shout “GOOOOOD MORNING!” rang down the halls.
Now that I look back on all those proofs that my high school was “crazy,” it almost makes me a little nostalgic. In fact, perhaps it is the very appeal of these behaviors that prove they are not normal-for the same reason that a practical joke appeals to those looking for a laugh. However, nobody finds it appealing when someone is molested or murdered. This demonstrates that the breaking of particular social norms is less punishable when they are informal norms, otherwise known as folkways. Breaking folkways is only mildly punished, or sanctioned, more so by other’s reactions, then by the law itself. I myself have engaged in the breaking of folkways.
I was leaning against the doorframe that separates our kitchen from the entry way. Unsatisfied. I had just engaged in brief conversation during the course of which I had the intense feeling of being looked upon with the surreptitious disdain and condescending superiority. I concluded that my social skills needed work and lost no time in working on them. I rewound the conversation in my head and was going over my responses word by word, rewording, adjusting pauses, tone and body language.
Iwas entirely engaged in this editing process when my brother walked in. He glanced in the kitchen, curious. “Who’s here?”
“Oh, um nobody.” I looked up sheepishly, mortified.
Grin. “You were talking to yourself weren’t you?”
I decided to take the plunge and launched into a lengthy explanation of why I was entitled to touch up my social skills after an unsatisfactory conversation, knowing that this talking-to-myself habit would be brought up in front of Mom and Dad. So I did the only thing I could…laughed and hoped to God I could live it down.
I think that this particular breaking of a social norm, is unique in that my brother’s reaction did not try to explain it away. He witnessed me going through the stage where I put various food products on my face claiming that it was a “facial,” and that time I decided to glue “gems” to my forehead or when I randomly started catapulting food at my (most likely scarred for life) younger sister. He has probably been convinced that I was hatched on some extra-terrestrial rock, since the age of two. Therefore, no explanation was necessary.
Socially, this shows how my brother is used to these normative clashes. What our society defines as normal behavior in school or at home, institutionalized norms, is rarely challenged. Because of societal expectations it is easy to become ethnocentric. Simply put, this is the judging of other cultures by one’s own cultural norms. Perhaps in some cultures it is normal to talk to oneself…some psychologists call this self-talking and claim that it aids learning. However, this is not a social norm in the society in which I grew up-made clear by my use of it as proof that my high school was “crazy” as well as my brother’s indication that talking to myself was funny and clearly not normal. Internalizing Newman’s discussion on what is considered “normal” has given me a broader perspective on just how much society can limit an individual’s world view with these norms. Yet it is the norms that hold that society together…even with the occasional individual that “self-talks.”
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Plato and My Search for Truth-essay
“I hate Plato. Man these relationship just aren’t working out. First I was in love with Dante because I thought he wrote Utopia and then I realized it was Sir Thomas Moore who wrote it and we had a picture of him but he looked horrible and now Plato has me reeling.” I was talking animatedly to my friends over the lunch table. They look at me as if I was hatched on some extra-terrestrial rock. I’m used to it.
I am not a philosophically minded person. It is not so much that I detest Plato, but rather it is the abhorrence of that brain-hurting feeling I receive after a good dose of Phaedo. Neither is it easy to detest the protagonist therein, Socrates, especially when he gives absolutely brilliant arguments for something which I am predisposed by my very religion to be in favor of: the immortality of the soul. Naturally, one would like to believe in the soul’s immortality, while practically at death’s door, as Socrates was. Yet his rational discussion proves that this is indeed a logical statement, and not simply the desperate need to believe that there will be something left of oneself after death.
Perhaps the basis of my conclusion that I am not a philosophically minded person, stems from the fact that I am a total romantic. My sense of beauty comes from the colors and shapes I see, or the music I hear. Socrates, however believes in Forms. That is, he states that the beauty we see around us is merely an example of Beauty itself. This statement is parallel to the metaphysical idea that the world is really only as we sense it. Put simply, we can never really be sure of anything that we see or feel or otherwise sense. I like to believe that what I sense is indeed reality. And it is that rather selfish notion that makes me begrudge Socrates his brilliance. It makes me question everything, even my most basic beliefs or axioms. It is humbling, and needless to say, uncomfortable. People do not like to question their own beliefs especially when they have been held in happy naivety for quite some time.
Philosophy has suddenly thrust me out of that happy naivety. What is truth and knowledge? What is good? What is reality? I am bombarded with questions and at times quite tempted to throw up my hands and scream, “Are there ever any answers?!” As if hearing my scream Socrates addresses that very issue. He warns against this disillusionment with argument. It ultimately comes from a person with faulty philosophy rather than the argument itself. He also encourages his friends to avoid the trap of simply wanting to win an argument, but rather to find the truth for oneself. Philosophical discussion is not for the exasperating purpose of proving one’s own cleverness. This general disillusionment is referred to a misology. It is like misanthropy-when someone has trusted so many people who prove themselves untrustworthy, that they simply stop trusting anybody. Misology is like this except with arguments.
Although most certainly one of the more dizzying classes in my college career, exploring it thus far has made known to me my ability to logically argue for the immortality of the soul, without the traditional response, “Well, it just is.” So I must concede that Plato has grown on me, despite my periodic lapses into misology. After all the Latin roots for philosophy means a love of wisdom. I imagine if Socrates were to try to dissuade me from this misology, he would simply restate “while I have breath and strength, I will not give up the search for wisdom.” [Apology] And what is wisdom, but the knowledge of that which is truth? Suppose one does spend all their life searching for truth, yet never find it? It would be a far greater tragedy for me to let the disillusionment of my own inexperience prevent me from that search. So did Socrates ever find that truth? I think he did. And I believe I shall.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
I am not a philosophically minded person. It is not so much that I detest Plato, but rather it is the abhorrence of that brain-hurting feeling I receive after a good dose of Phaedo. Neither is it easy to detest the protagonist therein, Socrates, especially when he gives absolutely brilliant arguments for something which I am predisposed by my very religion to be in favor of: the immortality of the soul. Naturally, one would like to believe in the soul’s immortality, while practically at death’s door, as Socrates was. Yet his rational discussion proves that this is indeed a logical statement, and not simply the desperate need to believe that there will be something left of oneself after death.
Perhaps the basis of my conclusion that I am not a philosophically minded person, stems from the fact that I am a total romantic. My sense of beauty comes from the colors and shapes I see, or the music I hear. Socrates, however believes in Forms. That is, he states that the beauty we see around us is merely an example of Beauty itself. This statement is parallel to the metaphysical idea that the world is really only as we sense it. Put simply, we can never really be sure of anything that we see or feel or otherwise sense. I like to believe that what I sense is indeed reality. And it is that rather selfish notion that makes me begrudge Socrates his brilliance. It makes me question everything, even my most basic beliefs or axioms. It is humbling, and needless to say, uncomfortable. People do not like to question their own beliefs especially when they have been held in happy naivety for quite some time.
Philosophy has suddenly thrust me out of that happy naivety. What is truth and knowledge? What is good? What is reality? I am bombarded with questions and at times quite tempted to throw up my hands and scream, “Are there ever any answers?!” As if hearing my scream Socrates addresses that very issue. He warns against this disillusionment with argument. It ultimately comes from a person with faulty philosophy rather than the argument itself. He also encourages his friends to avoid the trap of simply wanting to win an argument, but rather to find the truth for oneself. Philosophical discussion is not for the exasperating purpose of proving one’s own cleverness. This general disillusionment is referred to a misology. It is like misanthropy-when someone has trusted so many people who prove themselves untrustworthy, that they simply stop trusting anybody. Misology is like this except with arguments.
Although most certainly one of the more dizzying classes in my college career, exploring it thus far has made known to me my ability to logically argue for the immortality of the soul, without the traditional response, “Well, it just is.” So I must concede that Plato has grown on me, despite my periodic lapses into misology. After all the Latin roots for philosophy means a love of wisdom. I imagine if Socrates were to try to dissuade me from this misology, he would simply restate “while I have breath and strength, I will not give up the search for wisdom.” [Apology] And what is wisdom, but the knowledge of that which is truth? Suppose one does spend all their life searching for truth, yet never find it? It would be a far greater tragedy for me to let the disillusionment of my own inexperience prevent me from that search. So did Socrates ever find that truth? I think he did. And I believe I shall.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
Sleeping Beauty
I have been thinking about Sleeping Beauty. I joined our hall Bible study and was thinking about giving my testimony and came to the conclusin that it is rather like the story of Sleeping Beauty. Or should I say "Briar Rose"...really who gives their child that kind of a name? It begs the question whether they thought she was a thorn or a rose.
I never really held her in high esteem as a child-not only was she far too beautiful and required my utter disgust, but I felt that she was, well, plain stupid. I mean honestly as a sixteen year old, with parents who frantically went into "let's burn all the spining-wheels in the kingdom" mode, surely she had inquired why. "Mom, really, why?! Why all the fuss?!" "Well, dear, we don't want you to prick your finger." to which a sixteen year old would have naturally responded with a resounding "PULEASE! Do you honestly think I will prick my finger on a spinning wheel?" and stomped upstairs muttering mutinously.
Naturally she finds a spinning wheel and can't resist touching to see if it really will prick her finger. And then commences to fall into acoma for who knows how long. Maybe her parents feed her and talk to her while she sleeps and then just when they are sure that she will never wake, Mr. crazy Prince shows up. He insists that all it takes is a kiss. Really?really? maybe some heart shockers...they don't even know if there's any brain waves. Oh, not to mention all the other beautiful and elegible ladies who happen to NOT be in acoma. But no, no, he chooses this one.
And then she get's to ride off into the sunset?! What about all the weavers her parents put out of a job, or all those other ladies that were actually awake for most of their lives. And everybody's OK with that?!
I think a lot of times, God is like that prince. We're busy being stupid, and he suddenly sweeps out of nowhere with the amazing redeeming act of love and we, who deserve it least get the Prince. And it doesn't make sense.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
I never really held her in high esteem as a child-not only was she far too beautiful and required my utter disgust, but I felt that she was, well, plain stupid. I mean honestly as a sixteen year old, with parents who frantically went into "let's burn all the spining-wheels in the kingdom" mode, surely she had inquired why. "Mom, really, why?! Why all the fuss?!" "Well, dear, we don't want you to prick your finger." to which a sixteen year old would have naturally responded with a resounding "PULEASE! Do you honestly think I will prick my finger on a spinning wheel?" and stomped upstairs muttering mutinously.
Naturally she finds a spinning wheel and can't resist touching to see if it really will prick her finger. And then commences to fall into acoma for who knows how long. Maybe her parents feed her and talk to her while she sleeps and then just when they are sure that she will never wake, Mr. crazy Prince shows up. He insists that all it takes is a kiss. Really?really? maybe some heart shockers...they don't even know if there's any brain waves. Oh, not to mention all the other beautiful and elegible ladies who happen to NOT be in acoma. But no, no, he chooses this one.
And then she get's to ride off into the sunset?! What about all the weavers her parents put out of a job, or all those other ladies that were actually awake for most of their lives. And everybody's OK with that?!
I think a lot of times, God is like that prince. We're busy being stupid, and he suddenly sweeps out of nowhere with the amazing redeeming act of love and we, who deserve it least get the Prince. And it doesn't make sense.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
Giletians
The devos in the shower stalls scream "Welcome Back Giletians!" I squint at it again...surely the sleep in my eyes must be fooling me. Sure enough, it says "Giletians." All I can think is that I never really got the impression that we were that alienistic, but then again, some mornings I am feeling rather like an extraterestial stumbling through academic buildings...the sweet romance and mystery of Jane Eyre passing before my eyes. The plot is thickening with the mysterious Grace Pool and Blanche Ingram and I can hardly breath as I watch it all unfold.
Wow, to think that I am already in the throws of Spring Semester!I delight in the name "spring semester," however little truth it may currently hold. This lack of truth became abundantly clear when I realized that iceskates may be a more efficient way of getting to classes, as well as when I realized I had caught the dreaded cold and was stuck carying a box of tissues around. I am not a good sick person, somehow I always manage to convince myself that I am on the verge of death....death by sniffles and words like "morning" that end up sounding like "bording."
I have a job this semester. YAAAY! It's cleaning the women's bathroom's...but it isn't in a dorm..so no showers to scrub! A kindly boss, good acustics, and that little slot that makes the "juuup beeeep" sound when you clock in and out...oh, and then there's that super tipsy mop bucket on the second floor that has it in for me. But all in all I like it....I'm naturally a clean freak and it was easy to get in the routine.
Speaking of work, I have delighted in writing several essays, (that is after the procrastination stage...) Some of which I have shared with you already...I figure in my long absence from blogging I should show you that I have indeed remained a productive, or at least imaginative student.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Wow, to think that I am already in the throws of Spring Semester!I delight in the name "spring semester," however little truth it may currently hold. This lack of truth became abundantly clear when I realized that iceskates may be a more efficient way of getting to classes, as well as when I realized I had caught the dreaded cold and was stuck carying a box of tissues around. I am not a good sick person, somehow I always manage to convince myself that I am on the verge of death....death by sniffles and words like "morning" that end up sounding like "bording."
I have a job this semester. YAAAY! It's cleaning the women's bathroom's...but it isn't in a dorm..so no showers to scrub! A kindly boss, good acustics, and that little slot that makes the "juuup beeeep" sound when you clock in and out...oh, and then there's that super tipsy mop bucket on the second floor that has it in for me. But all in all I like it....I'm naturally a clean freak and it was easy to get in the routine.
Speaking of work, I have delighted in writing several essays, (that is after the procrastination stage...) Some of which I have shared with you already...I figure in my long absence from blogging I should show you that I have indeed remained a productive, or at least imaginative student.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Twenty
Ah, twenty..what to do with you?
Well now I have every excuse to wear soaring heels and silk. We celebrated my birthday at home. It was sweet, a delicious super, and the next day presents. I got an amazing pair of redish-purply-bluey mittens that mom knit and have worn them practically every day since. Every girl needs a pair of mittens, not to mention a smashing necklace made by my beloved Kayt.
And then there is this strangely beloved contraption, of whose name I am unaware. But after a deep discussion of why my current alarm clock was precisely 3 hours and 15 minutes behind and much struggle to correct that state, by which I had lived happily for at least a year, this newfangled contraption does the trick and plays music. I shall name it...perhaps Alexandra. Can't you just see an opera singer named Alexandra? Alighting the stage in a huge billowy ball gown?
In fact on the actual date I found myself quite moved when cards began arriving...I had forgotten it was my birthday. I suppose the most "becoming twenty" moment was when a friend fixed me hot chocolate. "Oh, make it all beautiful with whipped cream and chili powder!" And she did just that, steaming dripping over the sides of the cup with a gently swirled foam on top. I don't believe I have ever felt quite so sophisticated drinking hot cocoa. It was lovely.
Wishing you chocolate and big dreams.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Well now I have every excuse to wear soaring heels and silk. We celebrated my birthday at home. It was sweet, a delicious super, and the next day presents. I got an amazing pair of redish-purply-bluey mittens that mom knit and have worn them practically every day since. Every girl needs a pair of mittens, not to mention a smashing necklace made by my beloved Kayt.
And then there is this strangely beloved contraption, of whose name I am unaware. But after a deep discussion of why my current alarm clock was precisely 3 hours and 15 minutes behind and much struggle to correct that state, by which I had lived happily for at least a year, this newfangled contraption does the trick and plays music. I shall name it...perhaps Alexandra. Can't you just see an opera singer named Alexandra? Alighting the stage in a huge billowy ball gown?
In fact on the actual date I found myself quite moved when cards began arriving...I had forgotten it was my birthday. I suppose the most "becoming twenty" moment was when a friend fixed me hot chocolate. "Oh, make it all beautiful with whipped cream and chili powder!" And she did just that, steaming dripping over the sides of the cup with a gently swirled foam on top. I don't believe I have ever felt quite so sophisticated drinking hot cocoa. It was lovely.
Wishing you chocolate and big dreams.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
My Beloved Jane Eyre
So the train ride was back was actually quite lovely. I felt sophisticated, grown up and at long last...rather bored. Thank God for Jane Eyre and music. Speaking of the lovely Jane Eyre, she had me balling my eyes out over the various injustices inflicted upon her, not to mention the death of Helen Burns. My friends met me, half-crazed at supper declaring that each and every one of them were absolutely required to read Jane Eyre. And found myself vowing to become a writer. Compulsive, but oh, so delightful. After all my very love, Anne of Green Gables was a writer.
So the train seemed to gently dissolve until I found myself waiting outside the train station quite benumbed from the whole ordeal. Not to mention the literal fact that the station was closed for the weekend and the wind bit cruelly at my ever-so-fashionable-but-ever-so-inadequate J. Crew inspired outfit. Winter boots, leggings and a skirt! Maybe for 2 minutes outside. PULEASE! A mere half-hour into the hour I was bound to wait, I found myself acutely aware and appreciative of Jane Eyre's suffering during those horrid school hours in which they were forced to spend outside and she didn't even half a coat! I made a quick acquaintance with the other apparently stranded girl and when our faithful ride came, we were able to get her to her boarding school.
God reminds me once again that He is good and that my patience needs stretching. And, He rescues us from running into the car ahead of us after it screeches to a stop due to a deer.
Needless to say by the time we finally got to Houghton, I was in (what my Psychology professor would call) the Parasympathetic, emergency mode stage. Aka: high off of adrenaline.But now I am safe and sound and continuing to get lost in the wonderful story of Jane Eyre. And I wish the same to you.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
So the train seemed to gently dissolve until I found myself waiting outside the train station quite benumbed from the whole ordeal. Not to mention the literal fact that the station was closed for the weekend and the wind bit cruelly at my ever-so-fashionable-but-ever-so-inadequate J. Crew inspired outfit. Winter boots, leggings and a skirt! Maybe for 2 minutes outside. PULEASE! A mere half-hour into the hour I was bound to wait, I found myself acutely aware and appreciative of Jane Eyre's suffering during those horrid school hours in which they were forced to spend outside and she didn't even half a coat! I made a quick acquaintance with the other apparently stranded girl and when our faithful ride came, we were able to get her to her boarding school.
God reminds me once again that He is good and that my patience needs stretching. And, He rescues us from running into the car ahead of us after it screeches to a stop due to a deer.
Needless to say by the time we finally got to Houghton, I was in (what my Psychology professor would call) the Parasympathetic, emergency mode stage. Aka: high off of adrenaline.But now I am safe and sound and continuing to get lost in the wonderful story of Jane Eyre. And I wish the same to you.
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The fine art of demolishing
Jordan and I leave tomorrow....I for one am rather glad that there was a lack of transportation back to Houghton. It means J and I will be driven to Albany and then part ways taking various trains and buses. I am actually quite excited. "Oh, yay! Riding in a train makees me feel so much more grown up and la-ti-da-ish!" They know I am about to be 20 in human years but are sure I hail from some distant planet in whose years I am but a young child still enamored with life and romanticizing everything. I plan to keep it that way.
The past week has mostly consisted of J and me doing demolishon work for Dad. I actually like the routine. We have 10:00 and 3:00 breaks and are paid through our lunch hour. Although I have discovered a deep and abiding love for fancy clothes and soaring heels, it was refreshing be at the opposite end of the spectrum for a while. Snow pants and huge clunky boots, a jacket so huge and floofy it made me look like a turtle and a scarg up to my eyes. I looked like I very large burnt marshmellow and felt like the kid brother in "A Christmas Story" who can't move his arms. :)
We worked, shed layers and brought eachother's attention to our "brute strength." You wanto see a gun show?....Squirtguns!Your muscles are so still they're making pearls!...hear that sound....that's my brute strength right there...Crow bars raised above our heads.."uhuhu" Jord would take down a wall and I'd shriek in delight at plying up a single floor board. The wonder bars are look like miny crow bars and I took to calling them magical bars. Oh, and then there's that heater they call the salamander. I'll never forget that one day years ago when Dad got a call and was talking about a salamander...we insisted that he take us up to show us...and were sorely dissapointed at the sight of a big, orange heater. So we did it! That is, successfully took down several walls, as well as layers of floorboards. Although I certainly don't plan on making demolishon work my daily occupation...I have discovered that hacking madly at things can be great fun.
So...my suitcase is packed, (with much shoving and rearanging and huffing and puffing,) next semester's books are ordered and I am ready once again to delve into the college routine of papers, caffiene, and hopefully a few more snow ball fights.
Wish me luck!
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
The past week has mostly consisted of J and me doing demolishon work for Dad. I actually like the routine. We have 10:00 and 3:00 breaks and are paid through our lunch hour. Although I have discovered a deep and abiding love for fancy clothes and soaring heels, it was refreshing be at the opposite end of the spectrum for a while. Snow pants and huge clunky boots, a jacket so huge and floofy it made me look like a turtle and a scarg up to my eyes. I looked like I very large burnt marshmellow and felt like the kid brother in "A Christmas Story" who can't move his arms. :)
We worked, shed layers and brought eachother's attention to our "brute strength." You wanto see a gun show?....Squirtguns!Your muscles are so still they're making pearls!...hear that sound....that's my brute strength right there...Crow bars raised above our heads.."uhuhu" Jord would take down a wall and I'd shriek in delight at plying up a single floor board. The wonder bars are look like miny crow bars and I took to calling them magical bars. Oh, and then there's that heater they call the salamander. I'll never forget that one day years ago when Dad got a call and was talking about a salamander...we insisted that he take us up to show us...and were sorely dissapointed at the sight of a big, orange heater. So we did it! That is, successfully took down several walls, as well as layers of floorboards. Although I certainly don't plan on making demolishon work my daily occupation...I have discovered that hacking madly at things can be great fun.
So...my suitcase is packed, (with much shoving and rearanging and huffing and puffing,) next semester's books are ordered and I am ready once again to delve into the college routine of papers, caffiene, and hopefully a few more snow ball fights.
Wish me luck!
Yours truly,
Butterfly girl
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Hands, traintracks, and penny-candy
I am staring at my hands. There is a black stain on my right middle finger from my writing all my Merry-late-Christmas-cards. In a romantic way it reminds me of Joe in the book little women I think my fingers shrink when they are cold and dehydrated. I can tell they're dehydrated because when I press on the tip of one, the dent stays for a while.....a long sip of water....I could look at hands forever. Especially other people's hands. I think you can tell a lot about a person from their hands. And what role do nails play?
My Grandma's hands have long fingers and thinly veiled veins, but when you hold them you feel the callouses of years of hard work, scrubbing, cooking etc. We went to Ohio, to visit her over Christmas. I loved it. I swear she makes the best cinnamon roles ever. And of course we got to see cousins and participated in the traditional smashing of pennies on the nearby train tracks. There's a thrill when those striped poles come down and you hear the trains whistle...and then it is suddenly thundering by shaking the ground beneath you. And then of course we search for those flattened pieces of copper. The older ones have lead inside so that when the are smashed there is a thin line of silver on the outside of the copper oval.
My Grandma's crazy. She is one of the few people that can be entirely conservative and yet very adventurous at the same time. She once went on a Cruise to Alaska with my great aunt. The act like little girls together...giggling etc...but they had to convince her to wear a pearl necklace when they took their picture with the captain. :)
We volunteered with her at the thrift store where she works and at night drove through a park filled with Christmas lights...fountains and moving animals and there was one barn with lights that blinked to the tune on a certain radio station. Kaytlin and Mom and I explored graveyards...Kayt and I found the oldest gravestones...and were quite scandalized to find that some ALIVE people had actually already had their plot of land and a gravestone. "PUUULEASE! I'm totally letting later generations worry about what to do with my body." Which preceded a rather morbid discussion in which I upheld the romance of having one's ashes scattered with flower petals in some sparkling river or floating on a bed of flowers with a white dress on some canoe over a water fall....and Kaytlin upheld in explicit detail the entire grossness of the whole thing.
We went caroling and us kids skipped over to the one remaining penny-candy store I know of...but alas! It is no longer a penny-candy store...now the cheapest is 2 cents! We watched lots of television to make up for our utter lack of television at home and we laughed a lot.
And now I am home...with the delicious pine smell of the tree and the biting cold and the smell of the wood smoke from our chimney. It's so beautiful...but I am still moving south "when I grow up." And despite my cold hands I hope you to are having a warm, sweet, red-bow, pine-smelling, chimney-smoke Christmas.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
My Grandma's hands have long fingers and thinly veiled veins, but when you hold them you feel the callouses of years of hard work, scrubbing, cooking etc. We went to Ohio, to visit her over Christmas. I loved it. I swear she makes the best cinnamon roles ever. And of course we got to see cousins and participated in the traditional smashing of pennies on the nearby train tracks. There's a thrill when those striped poles come down and you hear the trains whistle...and then it is suddenly thundering by shaking the ground beneath you. And then of course we search for those flattened pieces of copper. The older ones have lead inside so that when the are smashed there is a thin line of silver on the outside of the copper oval.
My Grandma's crazy. She is one of the few people that can be entirely conservative and yet very adventurous at the same time. She once went on a Cruise to Alaska with my great aunt. The act like little girls together...giggling etc...but they had to convince her to wear a pearl necklace when they took their picture with the captain. :)
We volunteered with her at the thrift store where she works and at night drove through a park filled with Christmas lights...fountains and moving animals and there was one barn with lights that blinked to the tune on a certain radio station. Kaytlin and Mom and I explored graveyards...Kayt and I found the oldest gravestones...and were quite scandalized to find that some ALIVE people had actually already had their plot of land and a gravestone. "PUUULEASE! I'm totally letting later generations worry about what to do with my body." Which preceded a rather morbid discussion in which I upheld the romance of having one's ashes scattered with flower petals in some sparkling river or floating on a bed of flowers with a white dress on some canoe over a water fall....and Kaytlin upheld in explicit detail the entire grossness of the whole thing.
We went caroling and us kids skipped over to the one remaining penny-candy store I know of...but alas! It is no longer a penny-candy store...now the cheapest is 2 cents! We watched lots of television to make up for our utter lack of television at home and we laughed a lot.
And now I am home...with the delicious pine smell of the tree and the biting cold and the smell of the wood smoke from our chimney. It's so beautiful...but I am still moving south "when I grow up." And despite my cold hands I hope you to are having a warm, sweet, red-bow, pine-smelling, chimney-smoke Christmas.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Red and White
White is for snow. The kind of teasing snow that falls at Hougton, never quite sure whether it will stick or melt. The stars on the front of buildings, the Christmas trees. (I was sorely disappointed when curiosity urged me to pinch a few needles and smell -I was met with the cold reality the they were fake. :) And those beautiful white Christmas lights and cookie parties and Christmas caroling and movies and hot cocoa a cider. The snow that despite my fervent efforts at regalness, shuns high heels and laughs through tights and shrugs. The snow that throws every one into acquiring winter coats and boots and gloves and hats. Oh, and that ice on the side-walk that has us all splitting our sides laughing as we cross it, sprawling uncontrollable out, legs flying in all directions. And my first snowball fight in what? 2 years (my last winter spent in Africa.) I commentated as we all shrieked and ducked behind imaginary enemy lines and carefully flung our spherical, wind-resistant missiles. Towards the end we all began collapsing, huffing and puffing and one girl (who had grown up with five brothers)took to the desperate tactic of simply charging at people. :) I arrived back in the dorm room looking like the abominable snowman. "There were snipers, I was forced to engage in battle."
Oh,and perhaps it is the snow that has me suddenly craving red. Red silk blouses and red lace and large red bows and red shining Christmas tree ornaments. And red also for La Tomatina! Naturally, in it's traditional celebration in Spain it does not take place in December. But we were determined to celebrate it, before the semester let out and some friends left for their spring semester in England. If you have never heard of La Tomatina, it is a delightful holiday in which people commence to throw tomatoes at each other. We purchased...12. They were rather hard, so to makeup for that we reused them, and "juiced" each other. By the time we were done, the quad was scattered with mysterious pieces of tomatoes, and we were covered in seeds. G-R-O-S-S. But thoroughly DELIGHTFUL, not to mention stress relieving (in the face of semester finals and frantic studying.)
I sign off wishing you some red and white.
Yours truly,
Butterflygirl
Oh,and perhaps it is the snow that has me suddenly craving red. Red silk blouses and red lace and large red bows and red shining Christmas tree ornaments. And red also for La Tomatina! Naturally, in it's traditional celebration in Spain it does not take place in December. But we were determined to celebrate it, before the semester let out and some friends left for their spring semester in England. If you have never heard of La Tomatina, it is a delightful holiday in which people commence to throw tomatoes at each other. We purchased...12. They were rather hard, so to makeup for that we reused them, and "juiced" each other. By the time we were done, the quad was scattered with mysterious pieces of tomatoes, and we were covered in seeds. G-R-O-S-S. But thoroughly DELIGHTFUL, not to mention stress relieving (in the face of semester finals and frantic studying.)
I sign off wishing you some red and white.
Yours truly,
Butterflygirl
Playing Grown-Up
I am still catching up. I sit here at the computer feeling all grown up in my silk bathrobe, but engaging in the thoroughly un-grown-up practice of eating kix out of a box. I suppose if I was sipping orange juice from a wine glass and eating some kind of aesthetically pleasing toast, I might feel entirely grown up.
Well, Thanksgiving break was delightful. Rachel once again drove me to Rochester. And a few hours later Mom and Dad picked me up. And in those few hours I revelled in simply being surrounded by actual civilization. AND shopping to my hearts content. I found myself confiding in shoe store sales-women. I was trying on high-heels. "Oh, I love these." Walking back and forth in high heels each of which I wanted to simply pick up and kiss. There are adorable "Mary-Poppins" high heels with a buckle and small heel, and then those dark purple high heels, that really make me feel like I'm 20. High-heels do that to you. At nineteen, twenty still seems so far off, but when I wear high heels, they have this magical way of transporting me through time and I AM twenty. "You know, I've always wanted red high heels, although my mother would probably be scandalized." (As I teeter back and forth in a red silk pair with soaring heels.) I didn't buy those. I suppose I'll wait till I'm twenty. :)
So we visited Dad's family for thanksgiving...thoroughly stuffed ourselves and did a lot of Christmas shopping. Have you ever visited the Christmas Tree Shop? Oh, the smell fills you with nostalgic memories...kind of like how the smell in a coffee shop makes me want to wear high heels and read poems.
And before I know it I am back in school preparing for finals and Christmas break.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
Well, Thanksgiving break was delightful. Rachel once again drove me to Rochester. And a few hours later Mom and Dad picked me up. And in those few hours I revelled in simply being surrounded by actual civilization. AND shopping to my hearts content. I found myself confiding in shoe store sales-women. I was trying on high-heels. "Oh, I love these." Walking back and forth in high heels each of which I wanted to simply pick up and kiss. There are adorable "Mary-Poppins" high heels with a buckle and small heel, and then those dark purple high heels, that really make me feel like I'm 20. High-heels do that to you. At nineteen, twenty still seems so far off, but when I wear high heels, they have this magical way of transporting me through time and I AM twenty. "You know, I've always wanted red high heels, although my mother would probably be scandalized." (As I teeter back and forth in a red silk pair with soaring heels.) I didn't buy those. I suppose I'll wait till I'm twenty. :)
So we visited Dad's family for thanksgiving...thoroughly stuffed ourselves and did a lot of Christmas shopping. Have you ever visited the Christmas Tree Shop? Oh, the smell fills you with nostalgic memories...kind of like how the smell in a coffee shop makes me want to wear high heels and read poems.
And before I know it I am back in school preparing for finals and Christmas break.
Yours truly,
butterfly girl
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